


A bastard is a half formed boy

by ValofWinterfell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Catelyn is not great, Childhood, Drama, Family, Gen, Pre-Canon, Winterfell, Young Robb, young jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 10:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13432671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValofWinterfell/pseuds/ValofWinterfell
Summary: Sometimes when Lady Catelyn comes to watch Robb play with swords, or do his sums in Maester Luwin’s solar, or sit a horse while Hullen holds the reins, Jon likes to pretend that she’s there to watch him, too.





	A bastard is a half formed boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly updated version of a story I posted on ff.net recently. I'm new to posting my stories and to AO3, but I'll give it a try and maybe post some more later. I hope it's alright! (ps. comments would make me happy!)

The first time Jon really understands what _bastard_ means he is almost five years old. _Almost a man grown_ , Uncle Benjen laughs as he squeezes the boy’s skinny arm to feel his muscles, and Jon beams with pride. _Soon you will be as big as Hodor,_ says his Uncle, though Jon isn’t sure if he believes _that_ , even if he _has_ outgrown his grey tunic with the green trimmings _._

 

Sometimes when Lady Catelyn comes to watch Robb play with swords, or do his sums in Maester Luwin’s solar, or sit a horse while Hullen holds the reins, Jon likes to pretend that she’s there to watch him, too. Those days, he will take extra care to make his letters neat, to recite the names of all the Kings of Winter (though in truth there are too many to remember, even for a boy of almost five), and to swing his sword as fiercely as the Daeron the Young Dragon himself. He will pronounce his Valyrian words just right, and will run faster than even Robb, but when he looks over at her to see if she has noticed, it is not pride he sees in her eyes. Not love. Her eyes a blue and cold and blue.

 

Jon wonders why she loves Robb and hates him. He wonders what is wrong with _him._ His father smiles at both of them, lets them both sit in his lap, and pats both of them on the head when they have fallen over and are trying hard to be brave and not cry. Uncle Benjen lets them both ride on his shoulders so they can reach the high branches in the Godswood, and Maester Luwin smiles at both of them when they remember which King came after Brandon the Shipwright. Even little Sansa (who is only a babe in truth and not half so big as Jon and Robb) holds both of their hands tight as they lead her across the courtyard to where they are playing knights at a tourney, so that she can be their Queen of Love and Beauty, with a crown of the prettiest leaves they can find in her auburn curls. But Lady Catelyn only has smiles and sweets words and gentle caresses for Robb, and cold blue eyes for Jon.

 

She never hits him, never yells at him or pinches him, but he can still feel her disproval every time she sees him. Her anger. Her hatred. In truth, she never says anything to him at all, but Jon thinks that might just be the worst thing of all. Her eyes on him are cold and blue, cutting him deep, but no one else seems to notice the wound they leave behind.

 

When Jon is almost five years old, he wonders he did wrong to make her hate him. He thinks as hard as he can, and remembers that some moons ago, when he had only just turned four and was not as big as he is now, he had knocked over a vase of flowers in her chambers where he and Robb were playing, and it had shattered on the floor, the edges of the broken pieces as sharp as her eyes. He thinks this might be why she dislikes him so, but he is not entirely sure, for he cannot remember kind words and gentle smiles and hugs _before_ that either. Jon thinks that if he gives her a pretty gift, then mayhaps she will grow to love him as much as Robb.

 

The day is bright and warm, and a gentle breeze caresses Jon’s hair as he picks flowers in the Godswood. The sun is glinting in the deep pool beneath the Heart tree, and the Weirwood’s red eyes seem less sad than he is used to, and not quite so scary. The flowers are growing freely here, Goldencup and Lady’s Lace and Evening Stars, and Jon picks as many as he can fit in his little hand. His fingers are sticky, and the sun is too bright in his eyes, but he stays until he has a flower of every colour he can find.

 

He sees her walk across the courtyard, her hair in a long braid, her belly large with the little brother or sister Jon will soon meet. He runs towards her, almost grabs the skirt of her gown before he remembers to stop himself, and lifts the flowers up towards her. His breathing is quick, his hands are sticky, and his heart flutters in his chest. _These are for you_. He smiles at her, wonders if mayhaps she will stroke his hair or hug him. _My Lady,_ he says, suddenly uncertain when she remains quiet, studying him. _And why would I want those weeds, bastard?_ She asks, her voice low, her eyes cold and blue. She turns and walks away as his hand sinks, his fingers opening to spill the flowers on the ground, and his heart breaking in his chest. A _bastard_ , he understands then, is a boy Lady Catelyn can spare no smiles or hugs or sweet words for. A _bastard_ is a boy of almost five years who will never know her love. On the ground, the flowers mix with the dirt, sticky and withering, one of every colour he could find.

 

He cries in his bed that night. He tries to do it quietly, pulls the blanket over his head and pushes his face into the pillow, but Robb notices all the same. His brother leaves his own bed in the chamber they share and climbs in next to Jon, wanting to know what is wrong. Jon can feel it in his throat and his chest and his heart, can feel her cold blue eyes through the walls and the blankets, but when he opens his mouth to tell Robb, his tongue will not form the words. He only sobs, loudly this time, and his body shakes. He is almost five years old, almost a man grown, and he should not be crying like a babe. But Robb only puts his skinny arms around him, leans his forehead against Jon’s, and holds him. The tears keep coming for a long while, but when his body stops shaking and his eyes finally dry, his brother stays with him. They drift to sleep holding each other’s hands, and Robb’s little palm seems sticky in his, as if he too had been picking flowers.

 


End file.
